


In Loving Remembrance

by sumhowe_sailing



Category: 19th Century CE RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, too many roses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 02:38:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9695990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumhowe_sailing/pseuds/sumhowe_sailing
Summary: Charles Mersch visits the grave of the greatest man he ever knew and tries to remember.





	

**Author's Note:**

> *the little section at the beginning is taken from Maud Howe Elliot's "Uncle Sam Ward and His Circle."  
> *most of the major details are fairly accurate, I just tried to fill in some gaps.  
> *any correspondence quoted is verbatim from their actual letters.  
> *I haven't been able to find out what Charles did with his life after he left the Niantic venture, just that Sam's sons lived with him for a little while at the university and Sam sometimes came to visit, so a lot of the end is really just guess work.

ARCHIBALD, EARL OF ROSEBERRY

WILLIAM HENRY HURLBERT

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD

IN LOVING REMEMBRANCE OF

SAMUEL WARD

BORN NEW YORK, U.S.A., JAN. 27, 1814

DIED AT PEGLI, MAY 19, 1884

_And God gave him largeness of heart even as the_

_sands on the seashore._

“In June, 1937, fifty-three years after the day when Crawford and Hurlbert stood beside his open grave, Sam’s granddaughter Alida Chanler Emmet and I made a pilgrimage to the place. We drove from the modern city of Genoa to slumberous old Pegli, whose worn, cobbled streets were meant only for donkeys and foot passengers. Our taxi driver cleverly managed the steep ascent and brought us safely to the _Campo Santo_ and that part of God’s Acre where Protestant strangers are given decent burial.

We were greeted by three guards in uniform who eagerly welcomed us and set about helping us find the place.

‘Do many people come here?’ I asked.

‘Very few. Sometimes one from Switzerland, but rarely another.’

Sandra, the young Italian girl who came with us, was the first to see the white marble columns that surround the grave, and, at one time, must have been linked together by chains.

The place was well cared for, the large rosebush that grew over the grave had just finished blooming.”

 

***

 

The sun was blistering that May morning, with no clouds to reduce its intensity, no wind to alleviate the heat. The town below seemed to be still sleeping, unwilling to stir and face the oppressive day. Even the birds were dull, quiet, nowhere to be seen. The only activity was the slow ascent of two men up the jagged hill outside of Pegli. They were an odd couple: one clearly decades younger than the other, neither matching in dress, nor attitude, nor tolerance for the thorny path and merciless weather. The younger seemed to have difficulty keeping up. Every few steps he paused to wipe his brow and curse under his breath about the sun, the town, the road, and every damned fool who died in such a place. The older did not seem to notice or to care. He kept his eyes fixed steadily on the summit of the hill, on the small, crooked fence that crowned it. His feet seemed to navigate the treacherous ascent on their own, as though thoroughly familiar with every twist in the road, every rock jutting up in the path. And indeed they were. The landscape had changed very little in all the years this man had been making this journey.

When at last they reached the top, the old man finally noticed his companion panting behind him. He paused, giving him time to collect himself. The young man sat on a boulder near the gate, wiped his brow again, and looked over the valley below them. He whistled, impressed by what they’d accomplished, and turned to ask, “You climb this every year?” The man nodded with a far-off look in his eye, and said nothing. When the youth had had time to catch his breath, the old man set his hand on the gate, cast another long look across the valley, then pushed it open and walked in without checking to see if his companion was with him.

There was a guard house—‘house’ only by courtesy, for it was really more of a hut—just inside the gate. Someone ambled out to assist the visitors, then, recognizing the old man, the guard perked up and joined them briskly.

“Mr. Mersch! We were wondering when we would see you.”

“I suppose I am a little late this year. My family objected to my coming.”

“Did they? Well, you seem hale and hearty enough—I shall still be looking out for you a decade from now, I expect.”

“I hope I will not disappoint you.”

“And who is this strapping young fellow?”

“Ah, this is Wilhelm—my sister’s grandson.”

“Grandson! And already grown! Mr. Mersch you cannot be as old as all that?”

“Older, I’m afraid.”

“Well,” the guard smiled sadly, wondering if this would in fact be the last time he saw the old man. After a contemplative pause he went on, “Well, we have kept the place nice and trim for you—mowed it just yesterday in fact.”

Wilhelm was amazed to see the heart-felt grin this statement produced—he hadn’t seen his great-uncle smile like that in months.

“I am much obliged to you,” Mr. Mersch said, reaching for the guard’s hand. They shook, then parted ways. The guard went back to his hut, while Wilhelm followed his companion down a path that he walked with unhesitating confidence, every step known by heart. It was a shabby little cemetery, with several gravestones wildly askew or flat on the ground, in spite of the care that was lavished on the lawn. There were very few monuments, nothing special about anything, really, Wilhelm observed, just the sort of place where strangers are given a polite burial and quickly forgotten. Until, that is, he saw the white marble columns looming up out of the ground. They were fine specimens, delicately carved but solid and durable, linked together by an intricately wrought chain. Encircled by these pillars was an elegant headstone and a handsome rosebush, generously covered with buds. This vision would have been right at home in a much, _much_ nicer cemetery—clearly the grave of a very wealthy man—wealthier than anyone Wilhelm, or doubtless his poor, University professor great-uncle had ever known. Wilhelm thought surely the stone they were after must be somewhere near this; they were coming to the very back of the plot, there were few options left. He was astonished when they stopped directly in front of the glorious grave itself. He saw his great-uncle rest his hands on a stretch of the chain, a strange look coming over his face.

“Who was he?” he could not resist asking.  The old man gave him a startled look, as though he had forgotten he was there.

“A friend. Just a friend.” Then, hesitantly, “Why don’t you walk around for a while?”

He wanted to protest—what would his mother say if he wandered off and her uncle had a sudden fit?—but it was clear he wanted to be left alone. He swallowed his concern, nodded, and strolled off among the tombstones.

 

He knew every word, every letter, every arch and flourish in the inscription by heart, but he read it again anyway. _And God gave him largeness of heart even as the sands on the seashore._ Well, you couldn’t say truer than that. In all the years he had known Sam, he had never once known him to be stingy, not with his heart or with his purse. Even in abject poverty Sam had found ways to lavish gifts on his friends, wanting nothing in return but the smile, the knowledge that he had brought a little happiness into the world.

“You did, Sam,” Mersch whispered, “Lord knows you did.”

Sam had been the greatest happiness in his life. From the first moment he saw him—how long ago it was… They had been at that party, he couldn’t say where or what for, just that it had been such a dazzling room, full of music and laughter and everyone was dancing. He could vaguely, just vaguely, remember feeling out of place—a forlorn student who should have been studying, who had only been invited out of pity. He couldn’t remember the girl he had danced with or what he’d been wearing or even if he’d been enjoying himself. But he would never forget the moment Sam Ward walked in, unspeakably late but so brimming with good-will that no one seemed to mind the interruption. He had been amazed by the boy’s dashing manner, his confidence, his fine suit with the blooming rose in its lapel, his absurdly handsome face. In moments, Sam had a partner and was waltzing away; he had tried to return his focus to the girl in front of him, to whatever she had been saying, but he could not stop himself from staring at Sam over her shoulder. At the end of the night, they were in a small crowd just outside, waiting for their carriages. He had wanted to talk to him, but Sam had been surrounded by acquaintances, and Mersch had not felt worthy of joining them.  He settled for shooting furtive glances at him every few minutes, staring at his shoes or at the stars the rest of the time. It had been a particularly fine night, and he had been able to see Mars—or was it Venus?  He had been so caught up in the sky he somehow hadn’t noticed Sam approaching him. He had jumped when Sam clapped a hand on his shoulders, as if they had already been friends for years. Sam had laughed at him—Mersch wished he could hear that frank, heart-felt laughter just one more time. What wouldn’t he give to see Sam’s eyes light up, to see the grin spread over his face, just once more? Even then it had had such a powerful effect on him he could scarcely use his scattered wits. When Sam introduced himself, he could barely remember his own name. “Charles Mi- Mersch,” he had finally managed. “Well, Charles Mi-Mersch, a pleasure to meet you.” They had talked about the stars until Sam’s carriage arrived.

How well he remembered the agony of those first two years! Sam came to visit him from time to time, seldom staying more than half an hour. Paris was a busy city, overflowing with temptations for a man with leisure, money, charm, and certain tastes—all of which Sam had in abundance. Gradually their acquaintance had turned into something a little more like friendship; most of Sam’s circle did not care much for science, a subject Sam held very dear, and the subject Charles had already devoted his life to. So Sam had come to spend more and more time with Charles, discussing ideas, learning from him, extracting promises to research this or look into that, asking Charles to look over an essay he had written or to write something Sam could pass off as his own. And Charles did it all, uncomplaining, grateful, oh so grateful for every moment in Sam’s company, treasuring every look, hanging on every word. They had spent their evenings around the stove, talking about their day and building dreams for the future. They would discover worlds of new knowledge, publish things that would shake the scientific world to its core; together, with Charles doing most of the work and Sam providing the dash and confidence needed to pull it off, the two of them would be famous. Their fame had never amounted to anything more than the bitter-sweet memory of a happy dream.

And all the while Sam had been torturing him, albeit unconsciously, with stories of his latest conquests, of all the women making demands on his time and his purse. Charles had noticed ruefully that, however much he complained of them, Sam never hesitated to give in to such demands. Too often Charles had had to sit through another account of his first auspicious meeting with some radiant diva or the stormy separation from one of his regular hangers-on. And every time he had wondered how much more he could take. He knew what he wanted; he knew it was out of reach. But he kept hoping, kept clinging to Sam as tightly as he could. Then one night after Charles had been up nearly forty-eight hours working desperately, Sam had come over to describe another ravishing beauty, and Charles had turned away in disgust. It had shocked Sam, who’d immediately moved closer and asked what the matter was. He had often wondered since then how differently his life might have gone if he had come up with some excuse. Sam would not have been so intrigued by a solid answer, what had happened would never have happened. He might have had a few lonely years full of bitter regrets, the kind he had been wallowing in since California, but with nothing to nourish them, his feverish dreams of Sam Ward would have died away and he would have been a free man once more. He may have even gotten married, had children. But after Sam, no one would ever be good enough. No one could lay such claim to his heart again.

But he hadn’t been able to come up with an excuse. Sam’s hand on his arm had flustered him, the fear of scaring Sam away had shaken him, and the beating of his heart when Sam was this near was so loud it drowned out all logical thought, and all he had been able to blurt out was “I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t? Why not?”

“Because—because I can’t bear for you to hate me.” Sam had started up in surprise, repeating, “Hate you?!” he had recovered himself quickly enough, sat beside Charles again—oh, how gentle he had been!

“I do not think I can hate anybody, most especially not you, dear mi-ma-Mersch.”

“You would if you really knew me.”

“How can you say that?”

“You have practically told me so yourself; how often have you declared that you hate jealous natures?”

“Jealous? What on earth of? You’re a thousand times smarter than I—oh, oh of course. If you want me to introduce you to some women, you need only ask. I think Marie would be just ideal—”

“I do not want any women, Sam!”

“Then what—what—” Mersch could still remember that look, that reluctant comprehension dawning on his features. Sam had blustered for a few more minutes, still asking what he could be jealous of, still pretending it wasn’t obvious, until finally Charles couldn’t take it anymore: “I am jealous of the women who have your love Sam! It’s all I want from you, and it is the only thing you won’t ever give me.” The silence afterwards had been terrible. He had tried to follow his thoughts on Sam’s face, but for once he had been inscrutable. Unable to bear it any longer, Charles had asked him to leave. And he had.

It was strange, now, to think of that night. It was one of the few memories that had actually gotten happier over the years. At the time it had been unbearable. Yet now, the thing that stood out most to him was that Sam hadn’t hated him, hadn’t fled, hadn’t even said, “No, you’re right, I can’t love you.” The anger, the fear, the jealousy had all subsided over time until only the hope it left him with remained.

He didn’t see Sam for weeks after that. To the boy he’d been, those miserable weeks might as well have been years. He had really thought he never would see Sam again. But then, right at the end of June, he’d come back, bouncing into Charles’ little room as if nothing had happened. He seemed happy and carefree, except that he wouldn’t sit down. He paced the floor restlessly until finally insisting that they go for a walk. As they set off down the street, Sam had slipped his arm through Charles’, pulling him a little closer. Eventually they had come to a little church at the top of a hill, and Sam had let go of him to jump over the churchyard wall.  From the other side he had grinned and urged Charles to join him—and Charles never could say no to that smile. He was less graceful about it, but he made it over. Sam led him to a bench at the base of the church, cast so deep in shadow they could barely see each other. Leaning back against that house of God, Sam had pointed at the stars and said this was the best view in the city. Charles knew he didn’t want a response, knew this was just a prelude to whatever Sam had come to say.

“I’ve been thinking…”

“You usually are.”

“Haha, yes I suppose. I’ve been thinking about what you said.” A long silence. “I cannot give you my heart, Charles,” the crushing weight of those words barely had time to settle, before Sam, ever devoted to dramatics, added, “because you already have it. It has been yours this last year, I was just too blind to know it.”

And then, in the shadow of the church, under the stars, Sam had kissed him for the first time.

 

Wilhelm had gotten bored of glancing back at his unmoving relative. He had gotten bored of wandering through tombstones, none of whom were related to him or notable enough for him to pay homage to. The sun was still scorching; he was parched and would do anything to get out of the heat. So he wandered back to the guard house to seek refuge there. They welcomed him in, offered him water and bread. There were two of them; the middle-aged man who had greeted them earlier, and a surly older man with a salt-and-pepper mustache.

“Would you believe,” the former said, “that this boy is Mr. Mersch’s grand-nephew?”

“Eh?”

“His sister’s grandson, and already a grown man. Who’d have thought it?”

The two guards took to questioning him about his relative; was he still teaching at the university, did the journey take much of a toll on him, did he ever talk about Sam Ward?

“Ward? No, no I don’t think I’ve ever heard the name.”

“What? He didn’t even tell you whose grave he dragged you along to visit?”

“Well, he didn’t drag me along. It was my mother who insisted he needed someone to help him on the trip this year.”  They nodded approval.

“We’ve been trying for years now to get something out of the old man,” the younger said, “but all he ever says is, ‘Sam was a friend, just a good friend.’”

“You really don’t know anything about him?”

“Well,” said the salt-and-pepper guard, “I was here when he was buried. He must have been a cheerful chap, he was even smiling at his own funeral. Well-dressed man, beautiful clothes for all that he was a penniless bugger.”

“Penniless?” Wilhelm was amazed. “But his grave is so extravagant!”

“Ah, yes, his friends saw to that,” the man nodded again, “If friends they were. Two young gentlemen who were at the funeral. Paid for everything, they did. They said there was a third man pitching in, but I never saw him. Never saw those two either after the stonework was done. No one ever visits the poor man, no one but Mr. Mersch.”

 

Mr. Mersch looked around to make sure Wilhelm was nowhere in sight—he wasn’t—and then carefully ducked under the chain. He moved closer and rested his hand on the stone, running his fingers over Sam’s name, before slowly lowering himself to the ground.

“Well Sam,” he said in a low voice, “here we are.” Then he leaned back against the tombstone, let his eyes wander over the rosebush, and waited. It always went this way. The moment he saw the stone, the proof of the irrevocable end, he could not help but think of their beginning. But his mind always hitched on that glorious June night, and stayed there until some breath of wind, some flutter of wings sounded in his ear. It would be something low, quick, like laughter—Sam’s laughter when he had a surprise in store. And then the next memory would come. But with the heat came an inevitable stillness. Nothing moved. There was no sound, however much he strained to hear it. Finally, with nothing to stir him, he made the effort himself, simply asking, _what then?_

Then, they had been happy. Sam, it seemed, had had enough of Paris. He wanted to see the rest of Europe, and he begged Charles to go with him. Not that he had needed much persuading. So their travels began. They did not stay long enough in any one place for Charles to make significant connections, but Sam made friends instantly wherever he went. Sam was his key to social events he had never dreamed of attending, his golden ticket to anywhere and everywhere he could possibly want to be. And it hadn’t mattered to him at all. He was in a daze of ecstasy, exploring fascinating scientific conundrums in the day, visiting eminent laboratories, attending balls and parties in the evening, and falling asleep in Sam’s arms every night. The relationship was still new to Sam, so it was still enough. Sam swore Charles was the first man he had ever been with—and Charles believed him; Sam swore he was the only one he would ever want—and Charles wanted to believe. But even then he had known Sam too well; Sam’s heart was too ample to pin on any one person alone.

Then Charles got a letter from home, he was needed. Sam couldn’t defer his trip, not with his own father pressing him so sharply to return to New York as soon as possible. So they had parted ways, promising they would be together again soon. “Soon” turned out to be almost a year. He couldn’t remember now how he had spent those months in Luxemburg waiting for Sam to come to him. He had a hazy recollection of being so tortured by longing and impatience that he had almost grown to hate Sam as the season came round again. But as much as he might have sometimes wanted to, he never could bring himself to hate that man. At long last, Sam had sent word that he would be coming in just another week or two, only for a weekend, but it was the best he could do. Charles was sure it would be enough. He envisioned one last glorious night together, an emotional parting at dawn, and a lifetime spent living on those precious few memories. But, as usual, Sam dispelled all his plans in a moment. Charles was waiting outside for him when the carriage rolled up; he saw the radiant joy on Sam’s face, saw him throwing open the door even before the carriage had quite stopped and leaping out to embrace him. He didn’t see what exactly Sam’s foot caught on inside the vehicle, but he saw his surprise as he went down hard.  It only took a single shout to raise the household and one more to send someone running for the doctor. As he had carried his beloved friend inside, Charles had been struck by the fancy that he was carrying the bride of his heart over his own threshold for the first time. Sam asked why he was laughing, but he wasn’t able to explain until much later when they were perfectly alone. When he did, Sam laughed with him.

“Well, dear mi-ma-Mersch, that means you must always, always be faithful to me now.”

“I will be, until the day I die—longer, if there is a longer.”

“I think since I will be in Hell and you are sure of going to Heaven, I will release you from your vow the moment you are laid to rest—but not a minute sooner.”

“Yes, Sam,” Mersch said to the stone, “I still keep that promise.”

Those two months in Luxemburg had been the happiest of Charles’ life. Sam so seldom let anyone take care of him, but then he had had no choice. Coddling his lover, pampering him, was a much keener pleasure than he had anticipated. It was so rare to see Sam like this, almost helpless; usually he wore his mask of bravado and invulnerability day in and day out without a break, even in bed. It was here that Charles learned what a multi-faceted man his Sam was. Not only a scientist, a mathematician, and a flirt, but a poet, a philosopher, and a man given to melancholy.  Here for the first time, Sam really poured out his heart to Charles. He talked about all his fears, about his father and the expectations he had of Sam, how he didn’t think he could ever live up to any of them. He talked about his mother and his grandfather, how much he still missed them and how guilty he sometimes felt for letting their memories fade as much as he had. He told Charles how he often despaired for the world, feared that all the great adventures had been had and now the world was settling into a dullness it could never recover from. Charles held him as he spoke, soothed him when he could, but mostly he listened, drinking it all in, saving this honesty for a time when honesty might be scarce.

But neither the melancholy nor the knee injury could keep Sam down for long. As Charles spent his days in his laboratory, studying and working devotedly on Sam’s pet projects, Sam was entertaining guests in Charles’ home. After Sam had been with him for three weeks, someone came to visit Charles and ask if he knew he was hosting someone who was in communication with the divine realms.  Apparently Sam had been playing the psychic, and doing so very convincingly. When he got home that evening, he had to ask Sam about it. Sam was more interested in telling him about the people’s astonishment, but when Charles asked, “What is your method?” Sam explained readily enough.

“It’s very simple. When they stand, waiting to be recognized, Dr. Wurth here touches my hand and tells the audience I am now communing with him. It’s truer than they realize, for all that they come to believe it. You see, when Dr. Wurth touches this knuckle,” here he pointed to the very base of his thumb, “that means I should say General de Moullins. When he touches this,” pointing to the tip of his index finger, “I am addressing Goedecke.”  He explained a couple of others before touching the base of his ring finger, rubbing his index back and forth along an imaginary wedding band, “and _this_ , dear Charley, is yours. If you should ever decide to play.”

He had had to turn away to hide from Dr. Wurth the blush that this brazen remark drew from him. Later Sam would tease him mercilessly, and Charles would scold a little about being more discreet. But the tension was only manufactured so it would be that much sweeter when they kissed to make up.

Charles had politely declined all his invitations to watch one of Sam’s psychic displays—there were so many more useful things to be done—but when the opportunity had arisen to make Sam’s clairvoyance all the more convincing, he had not hesitated to take advantage.  An hour before Sam’s next exhibit, Charles had set out on a botanizing stroll. Before long, he was joined by Fresez, a friend of theirs. He told Charles he was going to Sam’s exhibit and, waving the little bag he was carrying, said,

“I hold in my hand a puzzling test for Ward and the Doctor.” He opened the bag and showed him a lithograph of a portrait he’d commissioned. “I intend to seal this, and hand it, at the séance, to Dr. Wurth. It has never been seen in Luxemburg, and if his magnetic passes can force the patient to discover its contents, I shall be a believer.”

Charles had laughed and said it would certainly be an interesting experiment. Then, telling Fresez his path lay in another direction, Charles turned the corner, and rushed home as fast as his shortcut would allow. He burst in upon Sam and Dr. Wurth and told them what he had just learned. “A good likeness, except the mustache—much too bushy, make sure you mention that.” The three of them were brimming with laughter until the time for Sam’s appearance arrived. Then the actors put on sober, serious faces and went into the parlor, as Charles waited upstairs to hear about the results. When Sam came back to him, he was still basking in the warm glow of unreserved applause and incredulous praise.  Beaming, he had thrown his crutch aside and wrapped Charles in a hearty embrace. If not for his knee, he probably would have waltzed Charles around the room as he had sometimes done before.

“I can’t tell you how much I love you just now,” he had laughed into Charles’s shoulder. “I didn’t know I _could_ love anyone this much.” _Well my love,_ he remembered thinking to himself, _that is how I feel about you every day_.

 

“Was he at the funeral?” Wilhelm asked the salt-and-pepper guard.

“Mr. Mersch? No. He didn’t come til August. Said he’d only just found out.” The guard frowned and seemed to be looking at something in the distance. “It was strange…” he mused. Wilhelm and the younger guard waited, but no explanation was forthcoming.

“Yes? Strange how?”

“He was so calm when he came, asked me to show him where Ward’s grave was. I left him there and thought that’d be that. Near two hours later I was making my rounds again, and there he was. Kneeling on the grave, sobbing like a child.  All my years here and I’d never seen anyone carrying on so. Never have since, neither.”  Wilhelm shifted uncomfortably. He had never seen his great-uncle cry, hadn’t even thought him capable of it. The old guard went on. “I thought at first they must’ve been brothers for him to be so upset. But when I asked his name and it weren’t the same, well, I’ve been that perplexed ever since. Well, I had to finish my round, but I didn’t feel easy about it, so I went back to him. He’d collected himself a little by then. But when I tried to talk to him he just kept asking about roses.”

“Roses?” Wilhelm was perplexed now as well.

“You saw the bush there now?”

“Yes.”

“It weren’t there the first time old Mr. Mersch came. He told me his friend had always wanted to be buried under a rosebush. I told him them pillars were much nicer than a thorny bush, but he seemed so upset that they’d forgotten the roses… I pitied the poor fellow. Told him about a little place down the hill where he could find a rosebush and come plant it himself.” A strange smile came over his face as he went on. “You should’ve seen him coming up that hill again, a shriveled old man carrying a bush so big you could barely make him out behind it. It was all in bloom, beautiful like. Looked like the roses picked themselves up and went for a walk.”

They laughed at the description; then the younger guard launched into a tale about another curious visitor he’d seen. From there, the conversation drifted on. After a while, Wilhelm realized the old guard was not partaking. He was staring out the window towards the back of the cemetery, frowning. He wanted to ask what was on his mind, but feared it would be rude. Later still when the younger colleague saw his distraction, he had no such qualms.

"You don’t need to watch for him yet, Mersch’ll be another hour at least.”

“Another hour!” Wilhelm started, feeling they had already been there much too long.

“Oh yes, he only comes once or twice a year, but when he’s here you can’t tear him away.”

“I was just wondering,” the salt-and-pepper man muttered, “if Mr. Mersch ever realized that bush he planted died.”

 

But young men mend quickly, and just like that, Sam was gone. Charles hadn’t tried to forget him, that would have been impossible, but he did try to put him out of his mind. He tried to fall in love with someone closer to home, he tried to stop thinking of Sam, he tried to settle down and get on with his life. But Sam kept writing to him. In every letter he reprimanded Charles for not writing, but swore not to be discouraged. He tried to make him jealous by writing about pretty women again. Charles withstood it for a little while, convinced they would both be happier in the long run if they let this affair die peacefully now. It was a futile effort. Sam could have worn even the strongest spirit down with his relentlessness, and Charles had never been strong. When Sam wrote that the only thing he needed to complete his happiness in New York was to have Charles at his side, what could he do? When he begged Charles to “come to throw your arms around me, and never again to leave me,” how could he deny him? When he wrote, “I can offer you my heart, and half of all that I have,” how could he say no? So he had followed Sam’s directions and ended up at his house “as if by accident” to begin a new phase of life.

He knew from the beginning it had been a mistake. He didn’t want to live on Sam’s charity alone, but as weeks went by without opportunity for employment, it seemed he had no choice. Sam had wanted Charles to live with him, as Sam had lived with Charles in Luxemburg. He tried it, for a little while, until the lack of privacy, the insistent curiosity of servants and siblings, made him feel more like a European curiosity Sam had produced for their entertainment than a person just trying to live. Finally he told Sam he couldn’t stay any longer. It had been an ugly fight: their first, if he didn’t count the night of his first confession in Paris. Sam thought him ungrateful, he thought Sam selfish and insensitive. When Sam accused Charles of not _really_ loving him, it had pushed him beyond reason. He had wanted to say something, anything just as hurtful and blurted out,

“I never should have come to your damn country. If this is how it must be here, I’m going back to Germany.”  The moment he’d said it he expected Sam to call his bluff; he knew Charles didn’t have the cash or the courage to leave him. Instead, he yielded. His anger melted into fear of losing him, he immediately took to soothing Charles, caressing and compromising.

By the end of the week they had found a bachelor’s flat for Charles, as close as possible to Sam’s home. Sam had wanted to find a larger place, or at least a more elegant one, but Charles had been adamant it must be cheap, since he intended to take over paying for it the moment he could find work. He savored his victory for a few days—days in which Sam did not come visit—before wondering if this, too, had been a mistake. It was a lonely life, in America where his only friend worked so many hours a day he could barely find time to see him. Of course, Sam had introduced him to a score of people, but he never had the easy confidence of quick friendship. He could not bring himself to call on any of them, and never expected any of them to come call on him. So he threw himself into his work more passionately than before and hoped things would get easier as he got used to them.

Then, just when he was wondering how long the extreme isolation would last, a letter had come. He knew it was from Sam even before he saw the familiar handwriting. It was an apology, in some regards, but a plea as well. Mersch rubbed his hand along the gravestone again, trying desperately to remember the exact wording. Little by little, with only a few gaps, it came to him: “Friendship can have no permanence unless it springs from respect. So, have respect for your poor Sam who sweats and labors for both of us, even as he respects you, who study night and day for our mutual fame…You must have a special attachment for me, not because of the dried roseleaves I was sometimes able to strew in your path … but because you are the first and last in whom I have confided. How much confidence did it require to strip myself of the iron mask I always wear before the world?” It wasn’t the warmest letter Sam had ever sent, but it was sincere.

Sam had bridged the gap that had been growing between them, had stretched a hand out, and now it fell to Charles to take the hand, to cross the bridge Sam had provided. So he tidied himself up as much as his poor wardrobe would allow, and went back to Hell’s Gate. Sam wasn’t there. He was in Cambridge, visiting a friend, a poet he’d met during the part of his German tour Charles had had to miss. He stayed in the parlor with Sam’s sisters only as long as politeness demanded, and then hurried home humiliated. When Sam returned the call a few days later, there was an awkward coldness between them that had hurt Charles more than anything before.

Two weeks went by without a word before Charles decided he could stand it no longer. Putting aside his pride, he went to call in Bond Street again. He remembered the relief in Sam’s eyes when he received him, the sudden forgiveness on both sides without a word. The silence on this all-important subject was necessary, his sisters being with them. But Sam, ever resourceful and determined to get what he wanted, found an excuse to accompany Charles back to his flat. Now, after a month of inhabiting it, Charles began to truly appreciate the place. There were no siblings just on the other side of the wall, no servants who might come bursting in at any moment. He and Sam had found a sanctuary. Here they could say anything without fear of being overheard, here they could be as passionate as they desired without consequence; they had only to close the curtains, and for a time, their world shrank to the safe, wonderful space between these walls.

Not that they kept the place solely to themselves. Sam took to inviting some of his acquaintances there, not always giving Charles warning beforehand. More often than not, Charles suspected they were the sort of acquaintance Sam would have been embarrassed admitting to his own home. It rankled, and sometimes he levelled accusations at Sam about it, but usually he did his best not to mind. Charles too began to invite people, as his own connections in the city slowly grew. But most days, Sam was the only one he saw. He’d taken to coming by every evening, no matter how late he’d left the office. Sometimes he was so tired, he fell asleep in Charles’ chair. The first time, Charles hadn’t had the heart to wake him; he’d settled a blanket over him, kissed his temple, and gone back to his own work. Sam had been beside himself in the morning, frantic to suppose what his family must think. After that, no matter how sad he was to see him go, when Sam drifted off, he roused him gently and sent him on his way.

Still, strained and lonely as those early months in America were, Mersch reflected now, they had been some of their best. Before Charles had found out about all the others, before the touch of death had made Sam so reckless, before California. Mersch leaned forward and caressed a rosebud, one that looked poised to burst into bloom any day now. It was so soft beneath his wrinkled touch that he was almost surprised by the thorns that pricked him when he plucked it from the bush. He brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply, losing himself in the memory it inspired.

“Sam we’re going to be late.”

“Come and help me choose, then,” Sam had beckoned, smiling up at him from his seat by the potted rosebush. Half of them were just opening, a few fully bloomed, the rest still hiding their petals from the world.

“Can’t you go without, just this once?” Charles knew the answer before he even asked.

“Never,” he had adopted his shocked, indignant attitude, but the smile in his eye was unmistakable. Charles sat on the arm of Sam’s chair, draping one arm around his shoulders, and leaned forward to look at the roses. Sam had taken advantage of this pose to press a kiss to his cheek before turning back to the flowers in front of them. As Charles had looked them over, he asked,

“Why _must_ you always have a rose in your lapel?” He was expecting some flippant answer—a line of poetry, a witty remark about courting high society with his dress, something off hand and charming in Sam’s usual style. But that was not what he got at all.

“I think, sometimes, it is the only way I can tell that I am still me. I wear so many masks in society, put on so many different faces to amuse and impress…I don’t always know who or what I am. But I have always loved roses, and so long as I can glance down and see my little emblem, I know that I am Sam Ward.”  Charles could think of nothing to say to that. Instead, he kissed the top of Sam’s head, then tugged at a shy rose, small but flawless, and asked,

“What about this one?”

“Dear Charley, you’re getting the hang of it. She’s perfect.”  After Sam clipped the flower from the bush, Charles helped him pin it in place. Looking him over, no longer concerned about being late, Charles had grabbed him by both lapels and pulled him close to kiss him, deeply and tenderly. When they drew apart, Sam stroked his face, and asked with unwonted earnestness,

“Will you promise me something, Charles?”

“Anything.”

“When I die, will you make sure they bury me under a rosebush?”

“Isn’t it a little early to be thinking of a thing like that?”

“Promise me.”

“If it’s the last thing I ever do, Sam, I’ll make sure you have your roses.”

 

“What do you mean it died?” Wilhelm was beginning to be annoyed by this old guard and his habit of starting a thought without ever finishing it. “I saw it there blooming and healthy just now.”

“There’s a bush there now, sure enough,” he assented, “but not the one Mr. Mersch went to all that trouble for.”

“What do you mean?” Wilhelm snapped. Between the heat, now at its worst, and the man’s irritating manner, he was in no mood for patient inquiry.

“It died,” the old man shrugged, unphased.

“I think,” the younger guard interjected, “I’ve heard this story a few times and can tell you. Trouble is, the story isn’t as straightforward as it might be. There was a blight that year, and it might have been that—Mersch might have just picked a bad bush, you see? But they didn’t see any really damning signs of that. Someone suggested it was just neglect, since none of the keepers who worked here at the time considered it their duty to look after some old man’s rose bush. It might have been from him carrying it up here, the roots not covered, you know, they shrivel in the sun. It’s a long walk, and the sun had plenty of time to do its work. Anyhow, whatever caused it, the old bush died within a month. Old Niccolo here felt bad, I guess, and planted a new one.”

“He kept saying he had to have his roses,” old Niccolo added after a brief pause. “I couldn’t stand to see him carrying on like that again if he came back and there was just a dead bush on the grave.”

“Did he tell you he’d be back?”

“No,” he looked thoughtful again, but didn’t wait to be prompted this time, “there was just something about him. I didn’t know when, but I knew I’d see him again.”

 

Mersch caressed the small flower gently, pressed it to his nose again, trying desperately to leap-frog off its faint scent and remember how Sam had smelled. But try as he might, that memory was gone. He was losing more and more of him as the years went flashing by. The first time he’d visited this place had been the first time he’d realized he could no longer recall the precise texture of Sam’s hair against his cheek. Just last year he’d realized he could no longer envision some of Sam’s favorite flourishing gestures, the graceful way he moved his hands when he spoke. Each new loss brought a new wave of grief. He tried not to dwell on it. He waved the rose in front of his face again and continued his catalog of the memories he _did_ still have, praying this annual repetition would let him continue to hold on to them.

He remembered Sam watching him work on their projects, creeping up behind him to wrap his arms around Charles’ waist. He remembered the heat of Sam’s breath on his neck as he muttered endearments. He remembered the scratch of Sam’s pen as they sat together some afternoons, Charles reading and Sam scribbling away to all his friends. He remembered the first time Sam had taken him to Cambridge to meet his friend Henry, and how kind the poet had been. He remembered the wistful way Sam watched Henry, the longing Charles could feel radiating from him. He remembered confronting Sam about it later. He had expected a denial and a stormy scene, but Sam had just spread his hands and pleaded, “I can’t help it, Charley. You know how easily I fall in love.” And it was true. He couldn’t even be angry with Sam about it; he was only angry with himself for having been so stupid, for having thought their happy bubble could really last.

They had gotten through that, though Sam never did stop loving Henry. It helped that Sam confessed one night that Henry did not, _could_ not return Sam’s sentiments, that as much as he might wish it otherwise, the friendship was strictly platonic. Then Charles became aware of still others, but he did not confront Sam about any of these. Most of them were merely phases, and Charles watched him fall out of love as quickly as he had fallen into it. He did not know if any of these other infatuations were consummated or reciprocated, and he did not ask. So long as he was doubtful, he could pretend to believe they never left the platonic realm—if he asked, Sam might disillusion him with that fierce honesty he had. And then, Mersch remembered, there was Emily.

The day he caught Sam composing a sonnet about Emily’s smile, Charles began to worry, really worry, that he would lose him. With any of the men Sam had had his eye on, Charles could resign himself to share. But not with her. He knew before Sam did that there would be a proposal, a wedding, and a new home to fill with children before long. Sam came less and less often after work as he courted Emily. His weekends were given entirely to her and her circle of friends and family: a circle Charles knew he could never belong to, no matter how hard Sam tried to bend society’s rules. He remembered Sam coming to him, unannounced and unexpected, one dreary evening to say he was campaigning to secure him a position as a professor in Harvard. He had gone on about what a wonderful thing it would be for him, the resources and opportunities he would gain, how Henry and a few of their other friends were doing everything they could to help him in this. And all the time he talked, Charles smiled sadly, thinking, _so this is how you get rid of me?_

The professorship was given to someone else, but the wedding had a date and Charles felt it best to leave. He thought of going back to Germany to really begin his life, but it felt too final. He could not be near Sam just then, but he could not bear to have an entire ocean between them either. So he went west to study the mountains. Sam had eagerly helped him plan his trip, helped him pay the expenses, and had taken him to the station to see him off. He never did know for certain if Sam had been glad to see him go that day. He still remembered the majesty of the mountains and the awe they inspired in him. It had been a thrilling adventure, one of the best he had ever had, but the entire episode was tinged with sorrow and mourning for a love he could not get back.

Eventually, the loneliness drove him back to New York. He had been so afraid of what sort of welcome he might receive in Sam’s new home, that he could not bring himself to go there. He had contacted a few mutual friends, let it be known he was back in town, and waited. He did not have to wait long.

“Charles! My dear mi-ma-Mersch! Is it really you, come back to me after all this time?” The door had barely swung shut behind him before Sam had taken Charles in his arms.  

“It is, mon cher ami, body and soul.” He clasped him tighter, and they stood for a long while in silence. Then Sam stepped back, holding him at arms-length and looking him over.

“You have not changed a bit,” Sam beamed.

“But I see you have.” It was startling, really, how different he was from the man Charles had left behind. He had put on weight, certainly, but that was not it. His face was creased now at the corners of his eyes and the lines around his smile were deeper. The smile too had changed—a tinge of sadness had crept in. That same tinge had given a greater depth to the sparkling eyes he remembered so well, and the new somberness made them almost unrecognizable. Even his buoyant way of walking had changed, as though an immense weight, much more than the merely physical, had settled on him. For the moment, Sam waved it all off and smiled broadly at Charles.

“On the outside, perhaps, but I am still your poor old Sam in here,” he swore, laying his hand over his heart. They had spent the night together, drinking and smoking and talking, but after that first embrace Sam made no effort to renew their intimacy, and Charles, thinking of Sam’s wife, did not dare. His reserve extended to his conversation, too. He happily listened to Charles talk about his trip for hours, but offered very little information about his own life since Charles had left. Gradually as the weeks went by they slipped back into their former easy companionship, but Sam’s reticence to talk about the intervening years persisted. An occasional caress let Charles know that some part of Sam had not changed; but either Sam did not know it or he was denying it to himself, for he never let it go beyond some loose bounds of propriety.

Charles was strangely upset to learn about all that Sam had been through from their friends instead of from Sam himself. The death of his father, shortly after Charles had left, and then of both brothers. His sisters had married and gone, leaving him as alone as he had ever been. He had his wife and a daughter, but Sam needed more love than any two people could give him. It was no wonder that he did not choose to talk about all his loss, but it hurt Charles just the same. Now there were subjects he did not dare broach, areas of Sam’s mind off-limits to him; that had never been the case before.

Perhaps all these new limits, this reserve, was what finally let him feel he could— _should_ leave. He missed his home, his real home, and his own family. The loneliness that had overwhelmed him in the mountains turned out to be longing not just for Sam, but for the mountains of his youth. So after a few uneasy months in New York, he had booked passage on a ship. He did not tell Sam at first, afraid he could change Charles’ mind. He did not want to be convinced to stay. Then Sam had come bursting in one evening while Charles was packing.

“What is all this?”

“I’m going home.”

“But you are home.”

“To Luxemburg, Ward.” He could not remember exactly when he started calling his friend “Ward” instead of “Sam”, but he remembered distinctly saying it that night. How cold he had felt, how stiff.

“Now? Must you go now?”

“I must.”

“Stay a few weeks, just long enough to meet my new child. You know Emily should be through her confinement by the end of the month. Won’t you stay, just til then?”

“I can meet the child when I come back.” He remembered the chill he felt when he said this. It had been the first intentional lie he’d told Sam—he had had no intention of coming back.

“ _Why_ are you leaving? Have I done something…?” He remembered the sudden softness, the reconciliatory tone, and how he had turned away from it.

“No. You haven’t done a thing. I just have to go.”

And he had gone. The _mal de mere_ had been so much worse than on the voyage to America. By the time his feet were on solid ground again, his stomach had convinced him never to take to the sea again. But a letter from New York a month later dissolved this decision and sent him on his way back to America almost immediately. Sam did not say what exactly had happened, only that he was wretched and _needed_ Charles desperately. In spite of its dramatic urgency, the letter had an edge of earnestness that tugged at his heart. Whatever the reason, Charles found once again that he could not deny Sam.

He found Sam’s home a depressing place. His wife had died just after giving birth, and the child had not long survived her. But he stayed there, not bothering to find his own lodging just yet. He remembered vividly standing at the gate, suitcase in hand, staring up at the building, half expecting Sam to come running out, skipping steps in his eagerness to get to him as in the old days. Instead, a servant met him at the door and showed him in to the library. Sam found him there a few minutes later. He tried to keep a calm face as he told Charles what had happened, but the mask cracked and Sam’s grief showed through. A moment later Sam was in his arms, sobbing like a child as if he had only just learned the news, even though it had been two months. Mersch still had a pang of guilt at the memory of the sick triumph he had felt in that moment. Even he had not realized how deeply he loved Sam, how much he had missed having him to himself, until the great obstacle of his wife was gone. He clung to Sam, aware for the first time of how terribly possessive he was.

It was hard to comfort Sam for this loss. Charles had barely known the woman, never seen the child, and had been fiercely jealous of the love Sam gave them. Still, he could not be callous about it. He made sure never to say a harsh word about either of them, never to turn away from Sam when he needed him. It was difficult, but it was worth it. Sam was his, all his, every caress, every kiss, every confidence was all for him. Every corner of his heart was open to Charles again, and he was no longer a stranger to his bed. He had his Sam back at last.

 

“You’ll get sunstroke if you stay out here much longer.” Mersch squinted up at the young man standing over him, confused for a moment about where he was and who was addressing him. He let the rose fall from his hand, drop into his lap, and looked away. New York faded back into the dim past, and all that was left of Sam Ward was this rock and this bush. He made to stand, but his joints had stiffened and he could not do it alone. Wilhelm ducked under the chain to help him to his feet.

“Well, are you satisfied?” the boy asked. It was only a shade more polite than “can we go now?”, but it was the best he could do.  Mersch did not know what the boy had been up to all this time—nor did he much care—but he wished he had stayed at it a little longer. He was not finished with his reveries, and now that he had been interrupted he did not think he could finish with them. Certainly not if the impudent whelp was going to stand there with his hands on his hips, watching him like a mother watches an unreasonable child. He was not “satisfied,” but he turned his back on Sam’s grave and walked away.

It was a weary walk back to the village; he did not have the focus that sustained him on the journey up. As he walked he tried to continue his stream of memory, but wasn’t satisfied with the jumbled recollection of Sam’s new—or rather exacerbated—recklessness in all things. A series of bad decisions at his firm had left it no choice but to dissolve. A few of his flirtatious relationships had almost blown into scandal, saved only by the efforts of his loyal friends to cover things up and make excuses. The second marriage, which all his friends had advised against and which had made his first family-in-law so angry they cut him off and took custody of his only surviving child. Mersch knew these things had happened, but couldn’t remember the exact order of them. He tried to think of the fights or the pleasant nights he and Sam had had in those years: a vain effort. Distracted as he was, Mersch stumbled several times on the familiar path, and once might have had a very nasty fall if Wilhelm had not been such a sturdy support.

In the inn where they were staying, Wilhelm tried to chat with him. He asked about the botanical features of the landscape, commented on the terrible length of the journey home, and chatted about other places he had visited. Mersch tried to be amiable, answering his questions and nodding at his commentary. But when Wilhelm asked again, “Who _was_ Sam Ward?” Mersch snapped at the boy to leave him alone. Wilhelm grew cross, and the two soon parted, the boy going up to bed and the old man lingering in the public room below. Scowling into his cup, left to himself once more, the memories began to come back again. Almost as soon as they did, he wished they had not.

 

“Yes, California.”

“But Sam that’s madness.”

“They’re finding gold out there every day, Charles. Madness would be _not_ seizing the opportunity while we have it.”

“But all your friends—“

“Damn them, Charles. Forget them.”

“There are other ways to avoid your wife—“

“Damn her, too.” He could remember the storm between them since he had gone bankrupt, how she took his children away and something within him snapped. It was always so tempting to blame her for everything that followed.

“I don’t know, Sam. There’s so much to consider…”

“Fine. Consider all you want. I’m going with or without you. Adolphe is going with me and the two of us will get wildly rich while you sit here _considering_. If you ever reach a decision, be so kind as to let me know.” And with that, he had gone. But the idea of Sam traveling thousands of miles across the country with anyone but him overruled all his logical objections, and he had chased Sam into the street.

“Wait! Ward, wait for me. I’m coming.”

“You’re coming?” Even now Mersch could see the hopeful disbelief on Sam’s face as he realized what he was saying, what he was committing to.

“I can’t let you have all the fun, can I?” he had tried to joke, but his voice betrayed his emotion. Right there in the street, regardless of the people around them, Sam had pulled him into a tight embrace.

It had not been an easy journey. With Adolphe with them, Charles could not be as freely affectionate toward Sam as he would have wanted. Sam was determined to show only excitement and enthusiasm, in spite of the crises and heartbreaks that had driven him out of New York. Charles wanted to comfort him, to rip the mask off and give the wounds the air they needed to heal, but their busy, uncomfortable days with no privacy didn’t allow it. Instead, they festered. Sam was reckless with his life, and by extension with theirs; he challenged strangers to fights over the slightest provocations, took dangerous detours through pathless territories, ignored all survival tips he was given. When they finally reached their destination and he became a business man once more, Charles hoped it would help him. And, for a little while, it did. He could still remember the eager delight on Sam’s face when he pointed up at a ship that could not find a crew, grinning at Charles and Adolphe—

“There’s our future, boys.” It didn’t take him long to persuade them. They bought the ship, and with his keen eye for opportunity and spectacle, Sam had turned it into a warehouse, a hotel, a store, a place for extravagant parties. Mersch would never forget the night Sam had set up pedestals, and, unable to find statues to fill them, had hired people to stand perfectly still all night on these perches, painted in gold to achieve the atmosphere he wanted. It soothed Sam, being able to create and direct that way—so much so that Charles had almost decided this trip west had been a good idea after all. They kept their own rooms in the _Niantic_ , and when Sam was not too busy hosting, and when Charles was not too busy going over accounts, they spent their nights together in happy companionship.

But he still missed Germany. That brief trip back to Luxemburg had only made the longing for home that much keener. At first, he did his best to ignore it. He tried to let it go, to be happy and content with the surreal life he was living. The first time he had brought it up to Sam, tentatively testing the waters, they had fought over it. Sam wanted to root himself here, but not, he said, without Charles. He had made Charles promise that he would not leave until Sam was ready to go with him. He had let it drop. But things only got worse from there. Mersch still remembered the awful night when he’d been sitting in his room, scribbling away, and heard the noises through the wall. Sam’s room was just a scant plank of wood away from his own, and that negligible barrier was not enough to drown out the first real evidence Charles had ever had that Sam was sleeping with another man. It had driven him almost crazy with jealousy. He had paced the room, then the length of the ship, then gone on a long walk through the dusty town trying to outrun his anger. He’d gotten back, physically exhausted but still seething, shortly before dawn. Still unable to sleep, he’d burst in on Sam, waking him. He still didn’t know what he’d intended—punching Sam? Fighting the man he’d slept with? Telling him he was leaving and would never be back? If that man had still been there, he might have done any of that. But he was gone. Sam was alone, looking very confused by Charles’ disheveled state. Perhaps it was the exhaustion, or perhaps it was the relief—Charles had collapsed on the bed beside him, sobbing. Sam held him until he fell asleep.

He never did tell Sam what that had been about, and after the third time Charles refused to answer, Sam had stopped asking. But he told him the next time it happened. And the next. It became an almost regular feature of their life: Charles would see Sam leading some young man away, or hear them through the walls; in the morning he would confront Sam about it, asking what ever happened to the loyalty he used to have; Sam would defend himself, sometimes making the barest of apologies, but not often. Then one morning he had knocked at Sam’s door, intending to go over some budget matter, and the moment Sam saw him, he’d given a frustrated sigh and said bitterly, “You’re suffocating me.” The shock of it left him speechless. The budget forgotten, he’d walked away without a word. After that, he’d stopped mentioning Sam’s careless affairs to him. Without that open confrontation, they were a little easier for a little while. But Charles could not stop noticing, he could not stop hurting. The bubble of rage and pain kept expanding inside him, threatening to burst at any moment.

All the while, the town had been growing around them. With more people, there had been more need for rooms and supplies, and other enterprising men had taken a page out of Sam’s book. They were no longer the only ones with a beautiful ship with almost everything available for sale inside. As their competition increased, their profits went down. Charles tried to point this out to Sam, but he did not want to hear it. And Charles knew that however many people followed his example, none of them could do what Sam Ward did, because none of them had the charm, the dash, the air of witchcraft that drew people irresistibly to him. Sam would never fail if it was only a matter of getting customers. Still, when someone offered to buy their _Niantic_ , Charles pressed him urgently to agree.

“You’ve made a fortune Sam, isn’t it time to move on?”

“Not while there’s still more fortune to make.”

“But what about your promise?”

“My promise?”

“To come home with me.”

“Germany will still be there when we’re ready.”

“I’m ready now. I’ve been ready for years, Sam. I want to go home.”

“Then go.”

“You’ll sell? You’ll come with me?”

“If Germany is more important than what we have here, then perhaps it is time to leave.”

“But you’re coming with me? You swore you would.”

For days Sam refused to give a clear answer. Finally, irritated beyond charm, he’d snapped, “Plans change. I’m not going anywhere. If you want to leave, I won’t stop you, but I won’t go with you either.” Too hurt by this, by Sam’s promiscuity, by his longing for his childhood home, he had no will to argue. He packed his things, sold his share, and began his long, solitary trip back to Luxemburg. Adolphe had been there to see him off, but he and Sam had never said goodbye.

 

Mersch’s head jerked up, as though he’d just woken from a nap he didn’t intend to take. _Never said goodbye._ He pulled himself to his feet, noticing for the first time how empty the room was. He looked around for the server girl, but she was nowhere to be seen. So he dropped some money on the table, and left. It was the first time he’d seen the streets of this little town by night. The glaring heat of the day had settled into a comfortable warmth. Without the half-blinding sun, he could appreciate how quaint the buildings were. The lights twinkling behind shaded window-panes beckoned softly, begging his attention, his imagination. But he had none to spare. _Never said goodbye_. It had tormented him for years. In some ways, this annual pilgrimage was his effort to make up for that. He came to remember the good times they’d had together, to search for Sam’s smile in the bloom of a rose, to hear his laughter in a breath of wind. But more than that, he came to say goodbye. He still did not know if he quite believed in an afterlife, but he hoped if Sam was there, if he could see how devoutly Charles remembered him, maybe, just maybe, he could forgive him.

As his muscles protested this hurried exercise, already sore from the climb that morning, Mersch tried to suppress the thought that this might be his last chance. Even if his mind held on to Sam another year, even if he could cling to these details while so much else slipped away, his body was going. He was an old man. He had been an old man even the first time he’d come to Pegli, and how long had it been since then? He had had such bitter fights with his family about coming this year; they did not want to let him out of their sight, they worried the stress of travel would be the end of him. Next year, how much harder would it be? He struggled to push these thoughts to the back of his mind, and thought about Sam instead.

 

He did not see Sam again for years, but he could not help hearing about him; he went everywhere, knew everyone. Sam had been like a meteor, burning across the face of the world and leaving a glittering, unavoidable trail behind him. There was no corner of society that was not somehow affected by him. The first news Charles had had of Sam after their separation, was that Sam’s second fortune had gone up in smoke the night _Niantic_ caught fire. On hearing this, he could not help but remember a night not long after Charles returned from Germany, when Sam, wrapped in his arms, had looked up at him and said, “Every time you leave me, I lose someone I love.” He had thought at first it was a silly, romantic way of asking Charles not to go again. But the gravity, the sorrow with which he said it made him think again. And, yes, it was more than that. His father and brothers had died when Charles went to the mountains. His wife and child had died when Charles went across the sea. It was not about Charles at all, except, perhaps, as an omen. Now he wondered if his flight from California was the loss itself, or if the only thing Sam had left to lose was the _Niantic_. Bitterly he decided it must have been the latter.

Then the next thing he knew, Sam was some sort of foreign minister or ambassador or agent. He never learned how Sam came to be so involved in America’s relations with Paraguay or Portugal or whichever country it had been. But he did not stay there either. Now and then Charles heard that Sam was in Europe, might even be coming to visit. And every time, Charles panicked. He could never decide which of them had been more to blame for the way they parted, and he did not want to see Sam until he could decide how to act towards him. He needn’t have worried; Sam did not seek him out.

He had, however, run into Sam’s second wife. He had never liked Medora; from jealousy at first, and from a more deep-seated personal disgust as he got to know her better. She too had been traveling since her separation from Sam. Both of their sons were with her; meeting them again, Charles could not believe how much they had grown. The resemblance to their father was unmistakable. He did not stay near them long. He was still trying to outrun his memories, and since they had settled so thickly in all the cities he and Sam had lived together, Charles decided to take himself off to a new one. He became a professor in Heidelberg and settled into the most stable portion of his life. He made friends there, he had his work, even some of his family, but he no longer felt alive. This was not living, merely…drifting. Once, Medora came to visit him; to his shock, she brought Sam with her. They had been reconciled, it seemed, though that state did not last long. Charles had still not decided how to act towards his estranged beloved. It did not matter; Sam decided for him. They met as friends, no more, no less. While in Heidelberg, Sam caught a cold and had to spend a week in bed. Charles went to visit him every day, but never stayed more than an hour and the two were scarcely ever alone. They did not speak of California. Sam told him nothing about what he had been up to, and Charles said very little about himself. They talked about little things, things that didn’t matter. Then one afternoon, Charles had gone to call on him, and Sam wasn’t there. He’d left abruptly that morning, desperate for a change of scenery. Once again, Charles did not get the chance to say goodbye.

A few years later, Medora had reached out to him again. Her sons wanted to study in Heidelberg and would he be able to look after them? Sam’s children. The ones he had barely had the chance to know. The boys whose loss had driven Sam to such a reckless edge. The ones who had probably spent their entire lives resenting the absence of a father who had done nothing but love them. Of course he could make room for them.

When they arrived at the station, as they clambered off the train, it was like watching his favorite ghost come alive again. There was so much of the true Sam, the young man he’d first seen in a crowded Parisian ballroom all those years ago, in their features—they were so young, so eager, so full of life—he was overwhelmed. He stood, watching them look around for him, for a long time, choking back the sob rising in his throat, fighting down the tears welling up, trying to ease the sudden knot in his chest enough to let his heart beat again.

He did not tell Sam about the arrangement at first. But when he did, Sam’s gratitude was incredible. He sent Charles a long letter full of regret and promise and love. He had sent the boys money whenever he could. A few times he even found the time and the money to come visit them. He did his best to win Wardie and Randolph over while he was there, showering them with presents, regaling them with all his best stories; but there was only so much his charm could do in the face of a lifetime of indifference and resentment. Charles always made himself scarce on these visits. He did not want to be in the way of Sam trying to reconnect with his family. Besides, he had his work to do. Once he had tried to scold Sam about his extravagant expenses on these boys, between the allowance, the presents, and the travel costs. It had been a mistake. Sam’s desperation for family, for love, far outweighed monetary consideration. Sam had harangued him about his own solitary life, his over-cautiousness, his refusal to _live_. In the heat of his rage, he had told Charles exactly how Charles had ruined everything they’d built together, how his inflexibility had been the cause of the snap. After a while, furious and miserable, Charles had fought back with no end to the accusations he could make. It had been a long, bitter, painful night. It had been their last fight, partially because it was the last time Sam allowed them to be alone together. After that, the boys were always in the room with them and the conversation always remained neutral.

Sam’s departures on these visits were always as sudden as his arrivals. One day he was there, the next morning he was gone. The boys tolerated the visits, expressed gratitude for the gifts, but little more. Their father may have been a meteor, but they did not seem part of his orbit. The day Randolph suddenly fell ill, Charles had had such a sick dread. Not only had he lost Sam, utterly and irrevocably, but he was about to lose Sam’s child, one of the very last aspects of Sam he still had access to. Not only that, if the boy died, wouldn’t Sam think it was somehow his fault? He would be sure to find something more Charles should have done, some warning sign Charles had overlooked. At least the boy did not suffer long. In fact, it took Charles longer to write the letter explaining his son had passed than it took for Randolph to die. He wanted to pour out his heart to him, condole him while seeking condolence (the boys had grown so dear to him, almost as if they were his own children). But he knew Sam wanted nothing to do with his heart anymore. Besides, Medora had left financial instructions he had to attend to right away, like it or no, and long, bitter experience had taught him he could not discuss Sam’s heart and Sam’s finances in the same conversation.

The letter he got in response was even colder than his own. Sam already knew about his youngest son’s death; he had found out from a newspaper clipping, one that didn’t even mention him as the boy’s father. It had been a crushing blow, and as Charles feared, it was the end of what little connection the two had retained. Medora had taken Wardie off to another school, so at least Charles did not have to watch him die two years later when he fell ill. At least he did not have to tell Sam this time. He heard that Medora did not long outlive him. After that, his life had simply gone on drifting. There was a gaping hole in his heart, but he learned to live with it the way someone else might learn to live without an arm. You simply had to take care, to not jostle the wound, and you might barely notice it.

Then, years later, after he had retired and moved to Switzerland with his niece and her family, he had been reading the newspaper over breakfast and seen a headline that made the world fall out from beneath his feet. The paper lamented that the great King of the Lobby had died on his latest trip abroad. There was a brief article crooning over Sam Ward’s life and accomplishments. It was complimentary, to be sure, but it was so impersonal. How could any tribute to Sam Ward be so lacking in life and vibrancy? It made no mention of where he had died or where he was to be buried. Charles had written frantically to everyone he knew that could possibly tell him. Finally, after a few agonizing weeks, a note from Sam’s sister, the one who lived in Rome, had directed him to Pegli. Without hesitation, he had gone to him. In the coach, he had held himself together, reliving all their fights, the hurt they had caused each other, trying to think of this as a visit to pay last respects to an old business partner. But when he’d arrived, when he saw the grave, he cracked. The names on the headstone were foreign to him. These men, his last friends, had probably never heard of Mersch, had certainly not reached out to see if he wanted to contribute to the funeral. They had handled it neatly, giving Sam a grave he would have been proud of. There was just one problem—there were no roses. He heard Sam’s voice echoing through the years as distinctly as if he was standing beside him: _When I die, will you make sure they bury me under a rosebush? –Promise me._ He had promised. Yet here Sam was, underground, and not a rosebush in sight. He had broken down at last, a lifetime of pain bursting from him as he wept over this final failure.

 

As he sat by the empty fireplace, old Niccolo was struggling to stay awake. At first, he was not sure the voice was not a dream. He perked his ears and listened more intently. It was certainly there. Someone was at the gate, calling to the guard house. His knees protested as he pried himself from the chair. His partner was down in the village calling on his fiancé, so Niccolo would have to see to this himself. He grabbed his lantern in one hand, his cane in the other, and went to see who could possibly be bothering him at this hour. His bad knee did not want to cooperate, but he ignored the pain and pressed on. His eyes were not what they used to be, so it took longer than it should have to recognize the old professor as he stood there, rattling the chain on the gate. When he did recognize him, he wanted to turn and go back. He was not allowed to let anyone into the cemetery once the sun went down, no exceptions. Yet something about this old man, about his passionate devotion to the man with the beautiful grave, tugged at Niccolo’s heart. He knew that if he spoke to him, he would be sorely tempted to break the rules for him. When Mersch saw him hesitating, he called to him with even greater vigor. Sighing, Niccolo went to him.

“Professor Mersch? I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”

“I know, I know I shouldn’t be here—but please, please can’t you open this gate?” In the dim circle of light the lantern shed, Niccolo could see the restless desperation in the old man’s eyes. It was a look he had not seen since Mersch’s first visit when he had set off down the hill for that bush. His heart went out to him, as he had feared it would, but he had a duty to do.

“Mersch, shouldn’t you be in bed? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but I needed to…please….”

“Can’t it wait til the morning?”

“No. We’re leaving on the first train, I had to come now.”

“And what is it exactly you had to come again for? Nothing’s changed in the last few hours, except maybe another rose blooming.” Niccolo had tried to be firm, but he was never strong in the face of such obvious grief. He was already unhooking the key from his belt before Mersch answered at last.

“I…I forgot to say goodbye.”

 

_Epilogue_

The jolting and rattling of the train made his muscles, weary from yesterday’s exertions, ache in protest. He watched the landscape sullenly without really seeing it. Across from him, the boy, still sour about the whole experience, was reading a newspaper in pointed silence. If he was being honest with himself, he believed last night—or rather early this morning—had been his very last farewell to Sam Ward. He hadn’t been truly well in months. His mind was going much more quickly than a year ago. His family was keeping a closer and closer watch on him. He wasn’t sure he’d last another year, and if he did he was certain they wouldn’t let him undertake such a journey again.

And when he stopped coming, Sam would be alone. Well and truly alone. Niccolo had told him more than once that he was the only visitor Sam ever got. It was a tragedy. Everyone had been drawn to him in his lifetime; his irresistible charm had gathered such crowds it was had been all Mersch could do to slide through and bask alone in his presence once in a while. But the flame had gone out and the moths had all flown and only Mersch was left. For anyone else, it wouldn’t matter. Other people were used to loneliness and neglect. But not Sam. Never Sam. He needed to be loved the way most men needed air. Mersch’s once-a-year pilgrimage was a poor enough homage, he knew that, but once it was gone? The thought wounded him more than he would have thought possible.

“Uncle, are you alright?”

The timid question took him by surprise. He forced his eyes to focus on the boy. He wanted to snap at him, tell him of course he was alright and to mind his own business. He didn’t have the heart to.

“You’re—you were—“ the boy hesitated, motioned to his cheeks, apparently too embarrassed to go on. Mersch touched his own cheeks, confused. He should not have been so surprised to find them wet. He had not noticed that he was crying. He could not explain himself to Wilhelm, so he said nothing, just turned back to the window.

“Please, won’t you tell me…just a little bit about him?” The anger that had settled on him had dispersed in the face of his concern. Mersch thought again about brushing him off—until an idea came to him.

“If I do,” he began cautiously, “if I tell you just a little, will you promise me something?”

“Something?” The boy sounded reluctant. What a stupid idea it had been. Still, he had to try.

“Yes.”

“What kind of something?”

“If I tell you who he was, will you make sure he still has visitors after I…”

“You mean, you want me to come back?”

“Yes. To say hello for me—and goodbye.”

“For how long?” Mersch gave him a level glance, considering. The boy did not sound _entirely_ opposed; maybe, if he did not ask too much, he could buy a little more time after all. But then what? He could not set the bar too low, it would be too unfair to Sam.

“For as long as you can.” The boy blinked at him. For a long moment he said nothing, weighing Mersch’s response and trying to work out just what it meant. Then, at last, he nodded.

“Alright.”

“You swear? On your honor, you’ll make sure to visit him every year?”

“I will.”

Mersch settled back against the pillow, trying to figure out just when he’d leaned so far forward. Having committed himself, the boy did not seem reluctant now. He may be a pushy, impatient, swell-headed boy, but Mersch was pretty sure he was an honest one. He had given his word, and it would have to be good enough. Now he faced the task of figuring out how much to tell the boy. Clearly he could not say that Sam Ward had the one creature on Earth he had loved above all others, the man who had made him everything he was and everything he would never be, the greatest and most painful thing that had ever happened to him. That knowledge would die with him. Still, even without such clandestine stories, he had enough tales about Sam to see them all the way back to Switzerland.

“Well. Well, then,” he closed his eyes, and resigned himself to telling as much of the story as he dared. “I suppose I should begin with Paris…”


End file.
